


Dark and Deep

by triedunture



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Claustrophobia, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-07 21:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: Traveling the Deep Roads reveals the Iron Bull's fear of small, dark places. And other things.





	Dark and Deep

Dorian thinks about how he will describe the Deep Roads to Sera or Varric once he is back in their company, and the only word that comes to mind is "foul." The air, the smell, the sense of dread that weighs on one's soul—all of it, foul. It does not improve with time or familiarity; it's every bit as bad on the way out as it was on the way down. The thick, endless shadows still shimmer with fraught possibility: giant spiders, perhaps, or worse.

Worse is likely, Dorian thinks. It always seems to get worse. He bites his tongue; he's already shared too many dour observations today. Their intrepid leader let him know the limit had been reached some hours ago.

The tunnel narrows alarmingly as they traverse it, trying to find their way. Cole flits ahead as a tremulous shape, finding footholds in the pitted floor. The Inquisitor does not appear bothered by their surroundings. She unstraps the shield from her back and carries it on her arm so that she can squeeze sideways through a particularly small gap. Dorian follows without much trouble, unhampered by his lighter enchanter's robes.

He chances a look behind him. Bull brings up the rear, his face lit by the wisp of magelight in Dorian's palm. Even in the flickering shadows, the mercenary's discomfort is plain. His jaw is set in a grimace that makes Dorian's teeth ache in sympathy.

"How fare the horns?" Dorian asks. The lummox had been so concerned about them, after all.

The Iron Bull grunts in answer as he wedges himself through the tight space everyone else has already navigated. His left horn scrapes against the stone, a sound like fingernails upon slate. Dorian suppresses a wince as he watches Bull. The great bulk of his body just barely slips free of the clutching cave rocks, but Bull breathes no easier for it. His single eye fixes on the blackness ahead. Resolute, if miserable.

Dorian slows his pace. Just to ensure his light is useful to Bull in finding his footing. He needs it more than the Inquisitor, after all.

"I do hope they're not scuffed," he says. "You might need to pause to polish them." It's an old jest, but one Dorian feels is a favorite.

Bull does not answer.

Worrisome.

The Iron Bull has faced down demons armed with little more than a broken axe haft and a mouth full of insults. Dorian has witnessed this firsthand. And yet, when they stood on the unnervingly rickety, hastily constructed wooden lift that was to bear them down into the Deep Roads, Bull's voice had trembled when he asked the Inquisitor if they would be traversing tight spaces. A slight tremble, yes, but noticeable to Dorian, who has become adept at picking out the different tenors in the Iron Bull's precise accent.

It was the same tremble Dorian had heard in a false graveyard, when they stood in the Fade and looked upon headstones of foreign make, their own names etched upon them above horrid, flaying words. "I hate this fucking place," Bull had murmured then, and Dorian had readily agreed before moving on. Of course they'd never spoken of it, instead doing the decent thing and acting as if they hadn't seen each other's graves. It isn't difficult for Dorian to hear the similarities.

One hones such skills, he supposes, when one is forced to fight side-by-side with people for months on end. Dorian fancies he can pick up twitches of pain in Cole's pale face, worry in Trevelyan's curt gesture. Bull is no exception.

(He can _never_ be an exception, whispers a voice in Dorian's head.)

"Take care here," Dorian calls over his shoulder as they continue further down the tunnel. He taps the toe of his boot against the hard ground to show Bull where he means. A trickle of water flows across the rock. "Slippery as eels. If you stumble, you'll surely gore me, so you better stay upright."

Bull makes a noise of assent but offers no thanks. More worryingly, he has no filthy comment about what else might be slippery and more pleasant. Dorian turns to regard him again. It's difficult to tell—the Bull is normally a light grey anyway—but his face does look a bit ashen.

"Tiring already?" Dorian prods. This, too, is an old favorite of theirs. _Need a nap, mage boy? One foot in front of the other._ That familiar kind of jibe that takes the place of naked concern.

"Yeah, tired of your yapping mouth," Bull snarls.

There is nothing teasing in that hard grate of words. Dorian must let his shock show in the quick raise of his eyebrows, for Bull sighs, folding in on himself as he picks his way over some jagged stones. He avoids Dorian's stare.

Oh, Dorian realizes. It's a cold, bright realization right through his middle. _Oh_.

Bull is frightened.

Well and truly frightened.

It's not a mere dislike of small, dark spaces. (Everyone dislikes them, as far as Dorian can tell.) It's a proper fear.

Dorian knows fear, can shape it and thrust it into an enemy like a knife. He knows fear can claw at one's throat, steal the breath, make it impossible to think, to do anything but blindly lash out. And he has never known the Bull to fear anything—save, perhaps, the word etched into that headstone.

It's enough to move even the hardest heart toward sympathy, and Dorian's does lurch in that direction even if Bull's peevish attitude stings. Best to leave the man be, he decides, and stop trying to coax him into the type of banter they've found themselves sharing more often these days. Dorian faces forward again, picking up the pace as he tries to catch up to Trevelyan. The only concession he deigns give Bull is his magelight, wordlessly tossing the wisp over his shoulder.

The oaf can wave it off if he wants. Dorian doesn't care. He conjures another in his hand to light his own way.

 

The maze of tunnels is not endless. (So it _could_ be worse. Delightful!) Cole leads them to a cavern of sorts, not expansive by any means, but large enough to allow even a seven-foot Qunari to stand at full height, and wide enough to fit four bedrolls though one of those is for show—Cole still hasn't gotten the hang of sleeping, though he sometimes lays down for practice. There are torches of Dwarvish make bolted to the rock walls and Trevelyan wastes no time in lighting them with her flints.

"Good enough a place as any to stop for the night," says the Inquisitor. She pulls a face. "If it is night." Impossible to tell. They haven't seen the sun in days.

Dorian dismisses his green wisps with half a thought, allowing the one in his hand to evaporate into thin air. Behind him, Bull makes a soft grunt as his own dissipates—so he did use it after all. Would it kill him to give a word of thanks? Dorian pointedly unstraps his bedroll from his pack and sets himself the task of finding the least damp and jagged bit of floor for it.

Bull sits on his unraveled bedroll—collapses, more like—and stays there with his arm propped across his bent knee, staring off into the dark middle distance in a daze. They're all exhausted. The fighting in the Roads has been fierce, bloody, and their journey to the center of the Titan had been bizarre even for them. The trip back to the surface, now without their two Dwarven guides, has weighed on them all, but Bull most of all. Dorian thinks on all the close-quarter fighting they've done in the tunnels. How long has Bull been choking on his fear of being hemmed in without Dorian taking note?  

Cole disappears between eyeblinks and Evelyn busies herself with chasing down a hairless nug for their supper. In this small space of silence and relative peace, Bull lifts his one eye to meet Dorian's gaze. It's red with lack of sleep.

"Sorry," he rumbles. "Not my best day."

Dorian doesn't dare let his frisson of relief show at the Bull's little apology. He merely shrugs and lights their campfire with a flourish. "We can't all remain perfectly unruffled by our circumstances, I suppose." He pretends disinterest in anything but the way the tinder catches with his spell, but the glance he sneaks at Bull reveals a drawn face, a furrowed brow.

"I guess," Bull says, and says no more.

Dorian dusts off his hands. Distraction, he decides. Nothing else for it.

"So you never said—any luck with that redhead kitchen girl back at Skyhold?" Dorian injects a sparkle into his voice. There had been a time, months ago, when Bull had been asking anyone he could corner about the girl's availability. As if that would make a difference with his chances; even a married lass would at least consider it, wouldn't she? Then again, Dorian muses, perhaps the Iron Bull is rather old-fashioned about that sort of thing. No thief in the night, this Bull. Everything above-board. How strangely moralistic, especially for an ex-spy.

"Nah." Bull groans, stretches himself out on his back, his hands pillowed behind his head. He speaks to the cave's stone arches. "She actually caught a ride with a trading caravan to Redcliff  awhile back. Has a brother there, widower. Wanted help with his kids."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry you missed your chance." Dorian sighs. He takes his time kneading his thin pillow into something approaching comfortable. "What is it about the redheaded ones, anyway? I've never understood the penchant for fiery hair."

A little laugh falls from Bull's lips, soft in the flickering cavern. "You're awfully curious about what I like," he says.

Dorian feigns indignation at the salacious tone. "Your tastes, low as they are, are none of my concern. I'm only attempting to make polite conversation." He sniffs. "A foreign concept for you, I see."

This is safe territory. He and Bull have tread it before. The man is an incorrigible flirt who, when lacking a feminine audience, will make due with Dorian as a target of his ridiculous antics. Dorian's grown used to it—had been fiendishly offended at first, of course, but now he understands. It's only a jibe, the sort of backhanded insult that the men in Bull's company and the soldiers in the barracks like best. Look at the prancing mage from Tvienter; could be a woman if you squint.

Well, Dorian thinks he is in good company if the women he's come to know in the Inquisition are any indication. He's been called much worse than ladylike.

Bull turns his head as much as the horns allow, his good eye a flash in the firelight. "Polite. Right." A grin, a small one. The thrill of victory runs through Dorian. Bull seems to consider a moment, then drawls, "It's rare among qunari. You don't see a ton of redheads in Par Vollen."

"So that's all it takes to entice you? Pure novelty?" He snorts. "Ridiculous."

"Don't you like stuff you can't normally get?" Bull asks. His tone drips with fake innocence. "I'd have guessed you liked the forbidden." His eye twinkles with good humor.

"What I like is not part of this discussion," Dorian points out. "And anyway, hair is not foremost in my mind when it comes to attraction."

"Hm." Bull puts a hand on his own shaven pate, rubs the spot between his horns with a little smile. "Good to know."

"Oh, please," Dorian huffs. This is good. This is normal, back to where they usually are. Nothing but idle chatter. Bull's rough charm aimed toward Dorian for no reason save boredom. "What I meant was, in the Imperium—"

"Here it comes," Bull sighs.

"In the Imperium," Dorian repeats, louder, "something as mundane as hair color is no cause for slavering."

"So you're saying you Vints don't care about looks?" Bull rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Must be someone else hogging the glass every morning before we break camp, fixing his makeup."

"Oh, do be reasonable!" Dorian scoffs. He only just stops himself from pointing out that he hasn't freshened his kohl in days. "I said nothing about austerity. I merely meant— Here, I'll show you." He sits up and concentrates on his threaded fingers. It's not his preferred type of magic, but it's simple enough. The sort of thing a somewhat gifted child can learn at a young age. Pure illusion, a party trick. Dorian murmurs a few words, then combs his warmed fingers through his hair. The spell leaves his scalp tingling like mint upon the tongue.

He opens his eyes. Bull is up on one elbow now, staring slack-jawed at him. It's fairly gratifying.

"You see?" Dorian takes a dirk from his belt and admires his reflection in the flat of the polished blade. His hair is a brilliant red now. Even his eyebrows and mustache and the patch of hair he keeps under his bottom lip have taken on a ginger hue. "When anything is possible, nothing is—" His breath stutters to a stop. For such a large man, Bull certainly can move swiftly, and he does now, leaning forward close enough to touch his blunted fingers to Dorian's hair where it lays along his temple.

"Exotic," Dorian says. Quietly.

"It's real?" Bull's whisper is just as soft as he combs his maimed fingers through Dorian's hair. "Feels real."

Dorian clears his throat. "It all depends on your definition of real, I suppose. It's still my hair. I've just made it appear different."

"Messing with my eye?" The Bull's lips quirk. "I only got the one left." Still so wary of magic and mages.

"Don't be foolish. I'm only bending certain points of light so that—" Dorian stops. Tries again. "The spell affects everyone's vision. Including my own, as it happens." He should shake off Bull's hand. That huge palm is moving behind his ear now.

A deep hum resounds from Bull's chest. He tips his head to the side as if considering Dorian and his newly reddened hair from another angle. Finally he makes his pronouncement.

"No good," he says. His hand falls away. "Don't like it. It's not you."

Dorian blinks. "I beg your pardon?" Not an act this time. He's actually quite offended. He always looks good.

"It's hot, don't get me wrong. But this…?" Bull indicates Dorian's hair with a flick of his fingers, half-shrugs, half-smiles. "You're supposed to look like Dorian. And this ain't Dorian."

Refusing to let the pink in his cheeks show, Dorian examines his reflection again. "I'll admit, the red doesn't suit me like my usual color. One shouldn't attempt to improve upon perfection." He shakes his head and the gingery tinge falls away like mist, leaving his hair and mustache the proper dark mahogany.

"There he is," Bull says, a strange softness to his voice. His good eye crinkles at the corner.

Dorian is not above a spot of preening but it seems ill-considered to do so under this kind of gentle attention. He casts about for a change of subject while replacing the dirk in his belt. "I could turn that scrub brush you call facial hair blond next, if you'd like," he says. "Maybe bright orange? Something festive."

The Iron Bull's laughter echoes through the cavern. It's the most accomplished Dorian's felt in quite some time. And he's accomplished many things.

 

Further along the Deep Roads. Hours of walking. Stumbling, really. Broken up only by fighting cave creatures and Dwarves armed to the teeth. Battle becomes a blur for Dorian, squinting through the sweat that drips in his eyes and digging deep in the pit of his stomach for the last reserves of mana at his disposal.

"Dorian!" the Bull roars.

He turns, frantic. Bull is behind him, why is he behind him? He's supposed to be in front, in the thick of the fighting where Dorian can keep an eye—

The greataxe takes down another Earthshaker. "Mine!" Bull shouts to Dorian.

Dorian's lips part. What…? This is hardly the time nor the place—

"Fire mine!" Bull calls over the screech of the fighting. His grappling chain is coiled in his hands. "Lay it down! Now!"

Right. Fire. Dorian whirls, his staff arcing low, and conjures the red glyphs against the blackness of the rocky ground. A loud boom accompanies his spellwork, and Bull roars anew. His chain sails through the air, catches against the greave of a Dwarf. He drags the bastard down, knocking over two more of enemies and dragging the lot of them through the line of fire mines.

The explosion is immediate and wonderful.

"That's how it's done!" the Bull cries. He steps over the charred bodies, axe in hand once more. He shoots Dorian a grin as he bounds past, back into the fray. "Keep 'em coming, big guy."

A new burst of energy flows through Dorian. He hits a charging cave beast with a wave of lightning and wonders if a Tevienter mage and a Qunari mercenary have ever worked together in such close tandem in the history of Thedas.

"Bull!" The Inquisitor's voice cuts through the chaos. Dorian's head whips around as does the Bull's—Trevelyan is at the edge of the fighting, fending off attackers with her shield, her sword sheathed so she can support Cole on her other arm. The boy is not looking well; blood streams from his nose and his eye is blackened, swelling an angry purple.

"They're not going to stop coming," their leader shouts. "I'm out of potions. We have to retreat."

"Retreat _where_?" Bull calls, slicing down another Earthshaker.

Dorian is already surveying their options as he strengthens their barriers. To their left a chasm yawns dark and bottomless. To their right, raging fires. Not Dorian's doing—they were there from the start. Ahead, endless waves of the enemy. Behind….

Dorian bites down on a curse. Maker, Bull is not going to like this.

"There!" The Inquisitor points to where Dorian had been looking—a narrow opening in the rock that surely leads to more twisting, airless tunnels. "Dorian, we'll need cover!"

He's already pulling on the Fade, readying himself to move stone and splintered wood. "Consider it done. Let's go, Bull." He darts across the mines to tug at the Bull's palandron.   

Bull would take the chasm over this plan if the look on his face is anything to go by. "Is she seriously asking us to—?"

"She's telling," Dorian corrects him, shoving now to get Bull moving in the direction of the tunnel. Evelyn and Cole disappear into its mouth, Cole's pale face turned back to look at them balefully. Dorian can sense the prick of protectiveness that must come over Bull at the sight, evident in the stiffness of his posture. "Come, the boy can barely stand," he says.

That gets the oaf's attention. They run now, Earthshakers and horrid cave monsters nipping at their heels. Bull's stride is longer and so he gets there sooner, but he pauses in the mouth of the tunnel, turning with his axe at the ready.

"I need you clear!" Dorian cries, barreling toward the Bull with his staff in hand. "Get back!"

A frustrated growled punctuates the air as Bull gives way. He bounds deeper into the shadows, following Trevelyan and Cole, while Dorian plants himself at the entrance and surrounds himself with the sweet, green energy of his spell. He might be sealing them into their tombs, he thinks, but there's hardly an alternative. An army is before him, brandishing their terrible weapons and showing no signs of slowing.

Dorian pulls on the invisible threads of the world. Rock and debris comes tumbling down, blocking the way. There is dust and darkness and after the last pebble settles into place, a strange silence.

"Did we lose them?" Ev asks.

"Yes," Dorian pants. He's drained almost to the very limit of his reserves, and the danger is by no means finished. "I think I might have crushed a few with that impromptu landslide but none made it through. I'm certain."

"Can we get a little light?" Bull grunts in the darkness, closer than Dorian had realized. His voice is casual but Dorian fancies he can hear that faint tremble again.

Dorian hesitates. He should really save his strength.

"Of course," he says, polite as you please. A green wisp struggles into being above his palm and by its light the faces of his companions are illuminated strangely.

Cole's pallor is worrisome. Bull's isn't stellar either, but at least he's upright of his own volition.

"My dear boy," Dorian chides as he approaches and takes Cole's other arm, looping it around his neck so the Inquisitor has a chance to strap her shield to her back. "If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times: you are to stay at a distance like myself and let our esteemed companions take the brunt of the damage, hm?"

"I'm sorry," Cole chokes out. "They were nowhere, then everywhere. Their arrows are small but the pain is not." His side is sticky with blood, one birdlike hand clasped over the wound.

Dorian despairs at the sight. He has no potions left either. Perhaps Bull…? He looks to him, a question in his eyes, but Bull just shakes his head. No choice then but to go forward and hope the tunnel leads them to safety.

Evie is already ten steps ahead of him, tearing strips of linen from her undershirt, bandaging up Cole's ribs. "Let's move. The faster we get out of here—" She doesn't need to finish the thought.

The going is slow. Dorian balances the tiny magelight above their heads, the last drop of his mana fueling it. They take turns half-carrying Cole, assisting each other when the tunnel gets too narrow to fit two abreast. Cole apologizes and whimpers in turn, the Inquisitor shushing him quietly.

Dorian keeps an eye on the Bull. Bull keeps his eye on Dorian's light. He must notice how faint and delicate it is compared to the usual ones, for he turns to Dorian with a pinched look.

"How much longer, do you think?" he asks under his breath.

Dorian summons a shred of optimism. "An hour," he says, though in truth it may be half that. "Perhaps more if I rest." There's always the chance that they will find their way out of this blighted tunnel in a few minutes, and there's no sense worrying the Bull for no reason.

"Okay." Bull's voice is tight. He knows as well as Dorian does that there will be no rest for them, not for awhile. His hand cups Dorian's elbow to steady him as he steps over a particularly nasty-looking pool of fetid water, and Dorian can't help the way his breath catches. He wants to keep Bull's hand where it is, somehow. Perhaps by asking.

It's so tiresome, when one must ignore silly impulses.

"So afraid," Cole moans ahead of them, his head lolling on Evie's shoulder. "Even after everything, afraid, amazingly afraid. Can't let him know. Can't ever tell him—"

Bull jerks away from Dorian as fast as Dorian does from him. Their gazes meet in the sickly green light of the wisp, twin looks of near-panic, both smothered as quickly as they appeared. They are old hands at masks, after all.

Dorian's heart pounds, surely audible in the echoing cavern. It's impossible to tell who Cole was channeling. It could have been the Bull and his fear of small dark places. But perhaps not. If Bull were to piece it together— Maker, please don't be so cruel.

"Cole, be quiet," the Inquisitor hisses. "Listen."

They all freeze, a line of four statues among the stones. Dorian can hear it up ahead. Footsteps. Muffled voices. A dialect of Dwarish he cannot parse.

More Earthshakers.

They are in no shape to deal with this. They are one man down with no way to heal themselves. They cannot face another bout.

"Kill the light," Evie whispers. The metallic ring of her sword being unsheathed is a quiet counterpoint.

Exhaustion should make the order easy to follow. The look on Bull's face—carefully hidden fear—makes it dreadfully difficult.

Dorian bites his tongue and extinguishes his wisp, plunging them into darkness. They flatten themselves along the stone walls of the tunnel, arm flush against arm. If they are lucky, the Dwarves will go some other direction and miss them entirely. If not...there is not much room to swing a weapon in these close quarters. It will be fists and teeth.

Dorian can feel the rattle of Cole's lungs on one side. The thrum of Bull's skin on the other. Close as they are, Dorian imagines he can smell all the different layers of horror in their sweat.

They cannot speak, can't make the slightest sound, but the urge to do something, anything, to help Bull contain his fear drives its knifepoint in Dorian. He reaches slowly, his fingers searching. Finds a large, hot palm with thick, maimed fingers. The lightest of touches.

Bull does not flinch. He laces his hand into Dorian's and squeezes. Hard.

Oh, but this is dangerous. Dorian closes his eyes. He can't see a thing anyway, and at least now, he will not strain to try.

The sounds of the hostile Dwarves grow louder, then seem to curve around them before fading in the distance. Dorian lets out the breath he'd been holding. Bull's hand is still a thick, sweaty weight in his grip. They don't let go just yet, either of them. Dorian tastes bile in his throat. What a pathetic creature he is, to use Bull's small moment of weakness as an excuse to touch. Yet he still does not let go.

"I can't go in the box again," Cole says in the empty space beside Dorian's ear. His voice is a deep growl, a parody of Bull's. "It's small and dark and hot. I could die in here, run out of air, throat working but nothing gets in. I could die in here and they wouldn't know until they pry off the lid. What lesson is this? Why can't they just _tell_ me?"

"Cole," Dorian says, a warning. Bull's hand goes slack in his, nearly falls away, but Dorian holds it all the tighter. He won't let Bull believe he could possibly think any less of him because of this. He knows what it's like for a private shame to be put on display by their resident half-spirit.

"Black and airless, I could die, I will die, I am dying, Hissrad is dying, he's—"

"Kid." Bull speaks evenly, measured. "I'm going to need you to stop talking. Right now. Okay?"

"Sorry," Cole murmurs, his voice his own again, "but it hurts."

Trevelyan sheathes her sword at last. "Hold on a little longer," she tells Cole. "We're almost out of here." She turns around to address Dorian and Bull, her voice directed toward them now, echoing quietly. "We should stay dark in case we run into any more Earthshakers. Got it?"

Dorian isn't entirely sure he'd be able to conjure more light anyway, as empty as he is. He releases Bull's hand. Reminds himself that no one could possibly see their little gesture of mutual comfort in this pitch black.

"Understood, my lady," he says.

They move again. Slower, more cautiously. Every touch of Dorian's arm against the dank cave wall sets his skin crawling. He can't imagine being as huge as the Iron Bull in this place. It must be torture. He thinks of the box Cole spoke of, shivers, reconsiders using the word 'torture' so flippantly.

Behind him, a heavy boot slips and Bull bites through a curse as he stumbles. Dorian's hand finds him again in the dark. Here is Bull's heaving ribcage, here is the sweep of his massive arm. Here, yes, here is his hand, darting out to take Dorian's. Wordless breathing. Too labored, too heavy. Fear making the Iron Bull clumsy.

Dorian dearly wishes he had some mana to spare. With a little effort, he could transform this cheerless tunnel into a massive expanse of desert, sand and sky and the moon, nothing but space as far as the eye could see. Magic could make it seem vast. Could trick the eye into seeing the Hissing Wastes instead of this. Bull likes the Wastes, had said it felt peaceful. He could give that to the Bull if only—

Dorian lets his face fall into anguish here where no one can see. Did the Pavus foolishness know no bounds?

"Nearly there," he whispers instead. His lips try to find Bull's ear in the dark. It's so black, one's stomach lurches with every motion. Will I smash my nose into a rock, Dorian wonders. Will I take a step and fall into a crevice ten fathoms deep? Dorian's nose, his mouth brushes against something—the thick, warm muscle of Bull's chest, slick with sweat. He recoils, tips his head back to better aim for an ear, tongue darting out to taste salt and fear. "A-apologies. Just. Put your hand on my shoulder. You can follow me."

A grunt, low and pained. "Can you see where you're going any better than I can in this shit?"

A near-hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up in Dorian's throat. Truly they are the blind leading the blind.

"I can sense the barrier I placed on Evie," he says. It's only half a lie—he _can_ sense it. When it's there. But now, as weak as he is, the barrier has long dissipated. "Our brave Inquisitor will lead us out of here. I only have to follow her, and you shall follow me, and together we will find the way home."

When did he start thinking of Skyhold as home?

"Okay," Bull breathes. In and out, in and out. The measured movements of lungs belonging to a disciplined man. "Sounds good." A tentative hand falls on Dorian's shoulder, turns him so that he faces away. His back is nearly flush with Bull's chest. Bull's breathing has them brushing up against each other in the dark. "Go on," Bull says, a bare whisper in Dorian's hair. "I'm right behind you."

They shuffle onward. Dorian concentrates on the sound of Trevelyan's footfalls ahead, puts out his hands to find the boundaries of the rock walls on either side of them. A memory surfaces, one Dorian has not revisited in many years: a childhood festival, bright and sugary and loud. Paying a copper to enter a house of horrors. Long dark corridors with costumed players leaping out to frighten the patrons. Squealing with delight and fear equally. Clutching his father's hand, burying his face in his robes, laughing and afraid.

His heart clenches. Bull seems to sense the twinge inside him, squeezes Dorian's shoulder in silent acknowledgement. Who is steadying whom here?

Ahead, Cole murmurs as if to himself: "You still need to explain it to me, Dorian. Why it's not enough sometimes."

Dorian falters. Behind him, the Iron Bull bumps into him but does not move away to create a little breathing room. They stand there in the dark, sandwiched together.

"What isn't enough?" Bull whispers.

Dorian almost relaxes. Ah, yes. Bull had not been there for that particular conversation about Father. Thank goodness for small—

"Love," Cole supplies helpfully.

Bull's breath is a living thing in Dorian's hair, thick with what Dorian imagines must be pity. He's stiff as a board against Dorian's back. Clearly embarrassed on Dorian's behalf. Dorian closes his eyes again. The last thing he wants to discuss in this pit is the tattered remains of his paternal relations.

"Hurry, we'll fall behind," he says, voice rough, and leads the Bull further into the blackness.

 

They find light. Eventually. Glowing veins of pure lyrium show the way. The tunnel opens up into a larger cavern, which opens into an even larger ancient hall, which leads them back to a path they recognize from the journey down. Bull's hand falls from Dorian's shoulder and Dorian does not allow himself to mourn. The Iron Bull takes Cole from Evelyn, lifting the boy into his arms as if he weighs no more than a sack of feathers. Evie nods her thanks, then checks her creased map.

"Please tell me we're stopping here for a spell," Dorian says.

She gives him a curt nod. "No sense pushing our luck. Cole needs rest." Her eyes flick up and down Dorian's blood-spattered robes. "And so do you."

For once, Dorian does not protest. He is beyond exhaustion, trembling with the effort of keeping his eyes open.

Over by a garishly carved wall, the Bull is flicking out Cole's bedroll with one hand, cradling his charge in his other arm. Dorian nearly smiles at the picture they make. As large as the Bull is, Cole looks like a drowsing child in his hold. The way Bull lays him down, mindful of his head, cupping it gently— He would make a wonderful father, Dorian thinks.

He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Maker, what is wrong with him? Ludicrous, useless drivel. He needs—they all need—to get out of this place. It's turning his brain to porridge.

"Hey."

Dorian blinks his eyes open again and Bull is there, right there in front of him wearing the most concerned look on his face. A quick check and, yes, Cole seems nicely bundled into his bedroll, eyes closed, blood wiped away from his nose. Perhaps the boy will actually manage to sleep a bit for once.

The Bull's hand is at his elbow again, steering him to another relatively clear spot by the wall. "Let's get you settled," he says.

Dorian still has enough intelligence left in his skull to see why the Bull is placing him against the far wall just as Cole is—furthest from any entrances or exits. The safest spots to sleep. Easily defended. If Dorian's not mistaken, ah, yes, Evie is already placing her own bedroll and the Bull's at the proper points, angled to allow them the best sightlines.

"You don't have to guard me," Dorian grouses, but it's a token protest. "Why don't you keep your back to the wall for a change? Maker knows I'll sleep easier without your incredible flatulence waking me constantly."

"Come on, that was one time," Bull says, affable or at least playing at it. "I said I was sorry. How long are you going to hold a fart against me?"

"I will forgive you on the spot," he says, "if you take the bedroll by the wall."

Bull's smile slips, his eye dimming with it. "Dorian," he says, and Dorian regrets being so transparent, so ham-fisted. He looks away, ashamed, but Bull just keeps talking. "Let me have this. I'd like to be useful for once today."

Oh, what happened to their little rules? Where can Dorian hide when Bull shows his hand like this? His tongue wets his lips. Salt, still there. Tasting of Bull's skin.

"You're being very unfair," he manages to say. "Quite selfish, thinking you're the only one who needs to feel useful at the moment."

This is the most inane argument. Dorian is dead on his feet, and so is everyone else, and what does it matter who sleeps where and who protects whom? He still cannot meet Bull's gaze.

"You don't—" Bull is saying, but then Cole whimpers from his bedroll and their attentions are diverted.

Dorian crosses to him and kneels at his side, his hand fumbling for the skin of water at his hip. "Come now," he murmurs, "can you drink?" He holds the skin to Cole's white lips while the Bull lifts his head, and together they help him swallow a few mouthfuls.

Cole coughs and pushes Dorian's hand away. "I'm trying to help," he says. Huge doleful eyes blink up at him, roll to take in the Bull as well. "If you don't say what you mean to say, shouldn't I just say it for you?"

"Why don't we worry about helping others after you're well enough to stand, hm?" Dorian corks his waterskin decisively. He's had quite enough of Cole's brand of help for one day.

Cole struggles to sit up. "But—"

Bull eases him back, his hands engulfing birdlike shoulders and gentling him down into the bedroll. "Kid," he says, "leave it. Rest up."

The boy is already on the verge of sleep, his eyelids fluttering. "'M not a sleeper…." he murmurs before nodding off entirely.

Dorian speaks in a hushed whisper so as not to wake their companion. "You are determined to take the first watch, I imagine?" he asks Bull.

Bull's eye flashes toward Dorian, and the big man moves silently to sit atop his own bedroll, broad back giving Dorian his answer.

Dorian manages to crawl into his own bedroll. He has a notion to stay awake just to keep an eye on Bull, who has been acting so strangely all day, but his exhaustion overtakes him within a matter of moments.

 

Awake suddenly, stick-stiff on the hard ground. Dorian's eyes fly open. He listens. What has awakened him? He's not sure, but whatever it was, the sense of unease does not leave him. Something is wrong. Something is missing.

His ears pick up the soft snores from Evie's bedroll, the low whistling of Cole's breathing. It's Bull's warm rumble that's absent. Dorian sits up slowly, peering into the thick shadows that line their sheltering hall. No horned shape appears.

No need to panic just yet, Pavus. A man might step away for a piss or to stretch his legs or any number of reasons.

A man might also be dragged into a cave by some slavering monster while you sit here like a lump, he thinks.

Dorian struggles to his feet, fighting his way free of tangled blankets and his own robes. His staff leans against the stone wall, and he grabs it before he strikes out in the most likely direction, the doorway leading into the chamber next to their current one.

He finds the Bull, though it's immediately obvious he does not want to be found.

Bull sits at the top of some rocky stairs worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. He's mostly blocked from view by hulking boulders. Lyrium glows in vines on the wall, casting him in strange, shifting shadows. He's hunched in on himself. Dorian can hear his labored breathing, thinks it sounds too much like the way Bull had breathed in the close dark of the tunnels.

"Bull?" He climbs a stair, then pauses. His staff is still in his hands, he realizes, and so he slings it across his back instead.

Bull lifts his face from his hands. No tears that Dorian can see, which is something of a relief. He's not sure how he would deal with tears from Bull. Still, the look on his face is pained beyond anything Dorian wants to see there.

"Fuck," Bull breathes. Draws a palm down his tired face. "Should've woken you or the boss. Didn't think I'd be away from my post more than a minute or two."

Dorian continues up the steps until he reaches Bull's perch. "The way this place echoes, I doubt we're in danger of an ambush. We can keep watch from here."

"Still," Bull grunts. He scoots over an inch to give Dorian plenty of space to sit, and so Dorian does. Their shoulders don't quite brush.

Should he ask? Dorian sneaks a glance over at Bull and wonders how he would begin to frame his opening gambit.

"I should apologize," he finally says, flicking the tails of his robe to drape more pleasingly about his legs. "If you came here to be alone with your thoughts, I've rather spoiled your plans."

Bull's laugh is dry. "You're fine."

They sit in silence for awhile longer. Dorian makes use of his waterskin, rinsing the taste of sleep from his tongue. Bull's breathing slows, returns to its usual rumble. Dorian listens to it and keeps his peace for as long as he is able.

"Did they—?" he asks at the same time Bull starts to say "I don't know if you—"

They both stop. Blink at each other in the lyrium light.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"No, please. After you."

Bull clears his throat. His fingers trail along the steps, memorizing pebbles. Rough chin resting on the point of his knee.

"It was part of re-education," he says. "Guess you figured out that much by now."

Dorian tips his head in acknowledgement but doesn't interrupt.

Bull sighs. "It's kind of like the thing where Cassandra beats me with the stick. Supposed to separate the mind from the body. You're not your thoughts and shit, you know? And most of it does work. Like the stick—it can help get me out of my head. Sometimes you don't want to be there, right?" He flutters his hand beside his twitching ear as if waving at all the mess contained inside his mind.

Oh, Maker, Dorian understands that all too well.

"But the box." Bull shakes his head. Blows air from his lips. Starts over. "I'm kind of a big guy."

"Are you?" Dorian drawls. "I hadn't noticed." He immediately winces. "Apologies. Not the time for levity."

A grin shoots his way, half-exasperated and half-fond. Sober in another instant. "Anyway. The box was...a tight fit for me. Wasn't painful—it wasn't about pain—but it—"

"Your horns," Dorian says softly. He looks at the point of the one that hovers above his head.

"Yeah," Bull agrees. His hand goes to the base of his horn and rubs. The misery in his voice is something to behold. "They had to really wedge me in there. Barely fit. Couldn't move my head at all, couldn't turn, couldn't look down. I couldn't even scratch an itch. Being stuck like that—well, you heard Cole."

"You thought you would die." Dorian feels foolishly bereft at the idea. It's difficult to picture Bull younger, fewer scars, two eyes—and frightened to death. Alone and trapped. That box may as well have been a— What did they call them? They buried their dead inside them in some parts of the south. His throat grows tight and his eyes burn. "They put you in a—a coffin, for Maker's sake."

"Hey, I made it out okay." Bull is close now, his big hand patting Dorian's back. Why is _he_ the one offering comfort? "I'm fine, I just get a little freaked out, is all."

"You were not _fine_ today," Dorian snaps.

Bull's hand retracts, not too swiftly. "Okay, yeah, I was dead weight."

"That's not what I—" It's not something Dorian thinks about, which is not good. He just turns and throws his arms around Bull's not-inconsiderable shoulders and holds him as tight as he is able. His hot face presses against Bull's neck, and he's absurdly glad that he's able to hide there. " _Kaffas,_  Bull, I know your relationship with your homeland is a complicated one. I understand better than most. So please, I beg you: let me hate the Qun on your behalf for just one moment."

A breath. Two. Middle of the third and Dorian is convinced he's about to be peeled off Bull like an extremely annoying limpet. But instead, Bull's arms engulf him in turn, and it's quiet here with just Bull's beating heart against Dorian's cheek.

"What they did to you was not fine," he says, struggling to keep the anguish from his voice, "and I will burn the people responsible to a cinder if I ever have the chance."

"Then you should probably get ready to fry me, too," Bull laughs. He pulls away, a chagrined smile on his face. "It was my decision to turn myself in. I knew what I was signing up for."

"No." Dorian shakes his head. "You asked for help. What they put you through—" He realizes he's still gripping Bull tightly by the shoulders. His hands let go instantly. "I'm sorry, here you are explaining to me why you don't like being hemmed in and like a fool I do exactly the wrong thing."

"Nah." Bull shrugs a shoulder under Dorian's arm to resettle it around him. "Doesn't make me feel trapped the way walls do. And anyway, being alone in it was what really messed with my head. Not alone now."

"No," Dorian says, arms tight around Bull. "I suppose not."

Could they just sit here like this for a few silent minutes? Dorian fights the foolish notion that they might. No words, no danger of spilling his heart on the ground. Bull's chin rests on the top of his head, a sigh rumbling through his chest, through Dorian. It should make Dorian feel small and insignificant, but he only feels safe.

It's been so long since he's felt safe.

He shuts his eyes, breathes in one last lungful of Bull, then forces himself to pull away. His hands can't quite leave Bull yet, but at least he's not hanging on him like some pathetic lichen any longer. He looks up into that grey face and manages a watery smile.

Bull does not return it. Instead he says, inscrutable, "How is it that you're so sweet, Dorian?"

Dorian ducks his head, cheeks hot with shame. He is a selfish man masquerading as a decent one. "I'm not," he says. "I'm really not."

"Sure you are," Bull rumbles. His hand, the one with the missing fingertips, touches Dorian's jaw, and Dorian startles, stares up at him. "Sitting with me here when you should be sleeping. Sitting with me when—" He swallows. His hand falls away. "Nice of you to put that all aside. If you want to keep ignoring it, we can. I get it."

"Ignoring…?" Dorian murmurs. "What do you mean?"

Bull laughs, looks up at the stone ceiling above them. "Okay. Fair enough. Let's just...let's just get back to the others, huh?" He moves to untangle Dorian's arms from his neck as if that's the end of their conversation.

Dorian tightens his grip, forcing Bull to remain where he is. His heart is hammering. If Bull has put together the pieces, if he's realized how deep Dorian's feelings go, then he'd rather have it out here and now. "No, tell me. Speak your mind. I can't imagine anything has ever stopped you before."

A frustrated puff of breath leaves Bull's lips. "Shouldn't you be the one doing the talking?" he says. "You already know how it is on my side."

"What side? What are you talking about?" Dorian's bewilderment is clear, but it only serves to agitate Bull further.

Bull stands, leaving Dorian to grasp at empty air. He strides down the steps, speaking over his shoulder as if this conversation is nothing more than rote chatter.

"You heard Cole. You know I'm in love with you."

Dorian is stone. He may as well be one of the carved figures that line the walls of this place. He cannot move or speak or think. Fear, he realizes from a far-off place. Fear that he has misheard, that this is a dream, that this is a cruel joke.

Bull, despite the fact that the world has come crashing to a halt, is still talking. He has his back to Dorian, fiddling with his leather bracers, muscles dancing along his shoulders.

"I get that it's not much. Not enough, anyway. Kid said it all, right? Sometimes that's just the way it goes. Nobody's fault." Those massive shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "So how do you want to play this? Keep pretending nothing's different?"

No, no, no. Dorian surges to his feet, nearly trips on the steps in an effort to reach Bull as quickly as he can.

"Andraste's sacred tits, Bull!" He grabs Bull by the elbow, finally getting a view of his surprised face. "The boy was talking about something else entirely! It was a memory of my father, the way I feel about him after all that's happened. It's something Cole had plucked from me before. There wasn't— I had no notion of any—" He stutters, running out of words.

"Oh." Bull's eye goes wide. "Fuck. This is awkward." His eye squeezes shut. "Shit. Fuck. Okay."

Dorian can hardly string two words together. "You're in love with me?" It hurts to believe.

Bull gives a helpless shrug. "Yeah. I mean, I think so."

"How?" Dorian whispers. Oh, damn the tears that are filling his eyes.

"Aw, Dorian, please don't cry." Thumbs wipe gently beneath his lashes.

" _How_?" he insists. How is it possible for Dorian to be loved as he is? Flawed and unchanged. And by this man.

"How could I not?" Bull murmurs. "Look at you. Sweetest guy I know."

"But you never—" His voice is a thin thread ready to snap. "I thought for certain I was so transparent. That you would pity me if you knew."

The look on Bull's face would be funny if Dorian were in the mood to laugh. "Wait. Are you saying you—?"

 _For so very long_ , Dorian tries to say, but the words won't come. He can only touch Bull's face, draws Bull down to meet him. The kiss is chaste, a press of mouths and nothing else. Then Bull brings a hand to cradle the back of Dorian's head, tilting, bringing them together with a slide of tongues and an exchange of warm breath. It should be horribly desperate but it isn't. It's gentle. Soft. Quiet.

"Yes," Dorian manages to say into Bull's kiss.

When they part, Bull's lips move to Dorian's hair. "Not the place I would have picked for this," he says into the strands. "Always thought if I was going to tell you, I'd wait till we were back in the Hissing Wastes. Lots of moonlight, a great view. You deserved something special like that."

"The Iron Bull, an incurable romantic," Dorian says. "Who would have imagined." He rests his head on the plane of Bull's chest and considers that the Deep Roads might be good for something after all.

Heavy hands on Dorian's hips, a steadying touch. "Listen, I don't know a lot about this stuff. Love stuff. I just know when I'm around you, I'm—" Bull gropes for the word. "I don't know. It's different with you."

"I'm no expert in the more tender emotions either," Dorian says softly. "Perhaps when I was younger, I thought—" He remembers trudging through the Exalted Plains with Cole at his side. _He would have said yes._ "Well, after awhile, one learns not to expect a grand romance."

"Don't know if I can promise grand," Bull says, "but if you're up for it, I'll give you all I've got." He squints down at Dorian. "Is that too sappy to say? Feels like it might be too sappy to say."

The tears threaten again. Rilienus might have given Dorian the answer he'd wanted if asked, but Bull didn't even need to hear the question.

"It's completely charming." Dorian gifts a kiss to his sternum. He can do that now. What a difference a few minutes can make. "Consider me on board for this plan."

"Damn, okay." Bull hums. He's swaying a bit with Dorian plastered against him. Almost like dancing. "Easy as that, huh?"

Dorian laughs. None of this has been easy. Except this part. This part is frighteningly easy.

The rest of the world, Dorian finds, is never so kind or so simple.

He swallows. "When we get back to Skyhold—"

"Let's take it as it comes," Bull says. Kisses Dorian's temple. "The boss, the others, let's not worry about them just yet. This is new, right? For now, it can be just for us."

Dorian nearly sags in relief. He'd been dreading how to phrase it, his need for discretion, at least for now. The last thing he wanted was for Bull to think he was somehow ashamed, but at the same time, a lifelong habit was difficult to break.

"How do you always know exactly what to say?" he asks. Then, straightening, he gazes up into Bull's smiling eye. "When we do share the news, you simply must ensure my reputation as a rake and a scoundrel remains intact. It won't do to have chantry sisters and soldiers knowing that Dorian of House Pavus did something as foolish as pine for you from a scant distance. I won't stand for it."

Bull's grin widens. "You pined?"

"Oh, dreadfully."

"Hm." Bull brings him closer, their bodies flush now. "Well, I could tell everyone we got drunk and fell into bed. Does that work?"

"Brilliant. A purely lust-filled romp." Dorian nods. "I was amazing, of course."

"Of course," Bull agrees. His hand combs through Dorian's hair. "And then it just happened again and again and before we knew it, it was just some regular thing." His mouth finds Dorian's ear.

"Completely understandable. Happens all the time."

"And if it slowly turned into something more….?"

"Well, who could blame you?" Dorian kisses him again. He can do that now, too. He smiles against Bull's scarred lips as he thinks about this other version of them. He's nearly jealous, but then again, now that they understand each other, there's no rush. There will be time to touch, there will be a real bed, there will be the relative privacy of their rooms back home.

"Cole will know, the little shit," Bull says. "Think he'll keep his mouth shut?"

"Not at all." Dorian grins. "Let's hope he remains cryptic within earshot of Evie." His smile drifts away as he thinks. Maker, let me keep this, he prays. At least for a little while.

Bull's keen eye darts to the doorway. "We should get back. You need your rest."

"As if I will be able to sleep now," Dorian says, fighting the yawn that will prove him a liar. "I'll keep watch with you."

"You don't have to."

"I'd like to."

A fond smile stretches Bull's mouth. "All right." He doesn't bother to hide his naked pleasure at this turn of events. His teeth are showing.

They walk back into the adjoining chamber where their friends sleep undisturbed, their hands finding and clutching at each other as they go. It seems like such a childish thing, holding hands in the dark. Dorian knows he should feel silly—he's not some innocent youth—but he can't find it in himself to care. They take their two bedrolls and bundle up together, backs to the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Dorian rests his head on Bull's huge arm. Bull rests his cheek atop Dorian's head. Beneath their blankets, their hands lace between them. How strange to have this tenderness all out in the open between them as if it had always been there.

 _Amatus_ , Dorian thinks, and is startled at the quickness with which that word has come to mind. For now he can keep it, a secret inside his heart, a gift he can give Bull later, when all the raw things have healed over fresh. He turns his face to meet Bull's skin, presses a kiss there.

"Sleep if you get tired," Bull says, quiet in the stillness of the dark.

"Wake me if you don't want to be alone," Dorian says before falling into a peaceful sort of dream.

 

fin

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, coming into this fandom 5 years late with Starbucks! I'm sorry it took me so long to play this game and fall in love with these nerds. I love their canon get-together so much and all the fanfic around it, of course, but I wanted to play with the idea of them getting together in a really sappy way. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed <3


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